


Aprons and Undershirts

by Mangokiwitropicalswirl



Series: Thanksgiving Fluff [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 04, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangokiwitropicalswirl/pseuds/Mangokiwitropicalswirl





	

How had her mother done this? Scully stares at the plastic shrink-wrapped turkey newly defrosted in the dish drain. She pokes the slimy plastic with her index finger, momentarily unnerved by its wobbly similarity to all the corpses she dismantles in her day job. This is, in fact, a corpse. A turkey corpse. But none of her usual skills are going to apply.

  
Scully silently curses Maggie for leaving her alone for the holiday before remembering, she is the one who had turned down the offer of accompanying her to visit Bill and Tara in San Diego. So even though being alone today is her own fault, she still feels the pangs of loss. With Melissa and her father so recently gone, Thanksgiving at her mom’s would not have been the same anyway -- which is probably why Maggie had wanted to get away. Their family is forever altered, so it’s time to make some different traditions. This is what she is telling herself.

  
Still, Scully couldn’t bear the thought of letting the day pass without the smell of turkey, stuffing, pie and potatoes permeating the house. She unearthed a cookbook someone, Melissa maybe, had given her years ago, from the back of the cabinet. Her plan is to follow the instructions for the Complete Traditional Thanksgiving Dinner, but scale everything down to the size of her own single appetite and the leftover space of her freezer.

  
She had braved the frantic grocery store mobs at 6 pm Wednesday evening on her way home. The roads were packed with government workers trying to make last-minute flights or scurrying toward the interstates for long drives home. The city was emptying out, and the halls of the Hoover building had been deserted by mid afternoon. Down in the basement, Scully had lost track of time finishing reports and research for a monograph she had due to a forensics journal. Mulder had been away from the office working on a profile for Violent Crimes for a few days, so when she flicked off the lights and locked the door a few minutes after 5, she knew she wouldn’t see him until Monday at least. She paused and glanced over the messy pile of X Files and sloppy handwritten notes littering his desk as if these were the man himself, Happy Thanksgiving, Mulder, she muttered, a wistful smile passing over her face.

 

  
As she slits the plastic-wrap off the turkey and maneuvers it clumsily into the roasting pan, Scully resolutely refuses self-pity. Singleness suits her. It’s her own fault, she keeps telling herself. It’s your own fault no one has invited you for dinner. Your own fault you’ve lost track of old friends. Who knows what Ellen is up to now, probably busy with another baby, or away with her husband’s family. Other friends from the academy are with spouses and friends. Scully has let those friendships go, not so much intentionally, but just as a way of conserving energy. And in the past year, the X Files have begun taking more and more of her energy -- to be more accurate, Mulder has. Even energy he doesn’t know he is taking. The energy required to keep the boundaries between them from collapsing in on her is enormous. There’s hardly anything left.

  
Scully lets out a long sigh and stops her thoughts from wandering. This is why it’s good to keep occupied, to immerse herself in food prep and deciphering recipes. If she just opts for a frozen dinner and her books, there would be too much time to get lost in the myriad questions about what her life is coming to, and whether her latent feelings for her partner are reciprocated, even just a little bit. Better to just keep cooking.

  
Scully stares at the pale goose-pimpled flesh of the bird and remembers her mom saying something, years ago, about forgetting to take out the paper packet containing the neck and gizzard from the first turkey she had made for Ahab, and how much they had laughed about it afterward. Where is this turkey neck? Scully thinks. And where does the stuffing go? Suddenly her cookbook seems frighteningly inadequate. It leaves out these crucial steps, assuming, wrongly, that its reader has at least minimal familiarity with poultry preparation. She glances at the clock -- 8:30 a.m., much, much too early to wake her mother on the west coast. There is, of course, the famous Butterball turkey hotline, available all Thanksgiving day for hopeless cases such as herself, trying to prepare a meal well beyond the scope of their normal abilities.

  
Sheepishly, Scully lets go of the splayed legs of the turkey, washes her hands and dries them on the front of her apron. Butterball hotline it is, she sighs, reaching for the phone. As she picks up the receiver to dial the number printed on the back of turkey wrap, instead of a dial tone, a familiar voice chirps a greeting.

  
“Oh hey, Scully, that was quick. You waiting for a call or something?”

  
“Mulder?” Scully stammers, “No, I…. I just picked up the phone to call the… um, nevermind. I guess it did that thing where the incoming and outgoing call overlap and the phone never rings.”

  
“Spooky,” Mulder replies. “Well hey, listen, I was just calling to see where your notes on the Gerry Schnauz case were.”

  
“Schnauz?” Scully shivers. “That was over a month ago, Mulder, I’ve already submitted the report to Skinner.” And undergone a few therapy sessions because of it.

  
“Yeah, I know that,” Mulder replies. “But I was thinking about it again last night and I had another idea about why Schnauz was able to project his psyche onto that film. I mean, maybe --”

  
“Mulder,” Scully cuts him off, a warning tone in her voice. “I’m going to stop you right there. As far as I’m concerned, that case is closed. If you want to make some additional notes, go for it, but I don’t really want to talk about it anymore. Okay?”

  
Mulder goes quiet on the other end of the line, as if it’s just dawning on him why Scully probably doesn’t want to dwell on that particular case. He lets out a slow breath.

  
“Sorry, Scully,” he apologizes. “I wasn’t thinking. Just tell me where the file is and I’ll make the notes myself. Sorry to bother you.”

  
“It’s under ‘S’ in the solved cabinet, but if you can’t find it there, it might still be in the stack on my desk. In the pile of completed stuff.” Suddenly Scully realizes where Mulder is. “Mulder, please don’t tell me you’re at the office on a holiday?”

  
“It’s a great time to get work done, Scully,” he teases, “so quiet, no nagging naysayers to interrupt me.”

  
Scully rolls her eyes and smiles, knowing it’s his way of smoothing over the genuine trauma of the case in which Scully had been captured, imprisoned in an RV and nearly lobotomized by a disturbed son of a dentist.

  
“Do you have somewhere to go today?” Scully asks, already knowing the answer.

  
“Nah,” Mulder shrugs, “Thanksgiving was pretty volatile around our house. I pretty much avoid it. Thought I’d get some work done, keep my mind off things.”

  
Scully pauses. Unsure if she should offer what she’s about to, unsure if they have a spend-time-together-on-a-holiday kind of friendship. On the other hand, she muses, apparently they are the kind of friends Mulder believes are connected across lifetimes, who frantically break through windows to save one another, who just have a feeling when one or the other of them isn’t dead.

  
Scully looks around at the 10 pound turkey languishing in the roast pan, the heavy glass casserole dish waiting for green beans, the whole round pie pan, and the 5 pound sack of potatoes. “Do you…. do you wanna come over here?”

  
“Aren’t you going to Maggie’s?”

  
“Well, normally I would, but she went to see Bill in San Diego.”

  
“Didn’t want to make the trip, huh?”

  
“Didn’t want to take that much time off, no,” Scully admits. “I’m cooking, though, and I’m gonna have way too much for just me. Why don’t you come over? You can bring your files and work on them here til the food’s ready.”

  
“Well,” he hesitates, “well, okay then. Should I bring something?”

  
“Just yourself,” Scully smiles, “and any extraneous knowledge of turkey preparation you might have picked up along the way.”

  
“You might be surprised,” Mulder answers. “See ya soon.”  
___________________

  
Scully is surprised. Mulder, it turns out, knows his way around a turkey.

  
He turns up an hour later lugging a briefcase full of files and a slim paper sack containing a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  
“The least I could do,” he blurts out as he drops his bag next to the door, hastily thrusting the wine into Scully’s hands. She grasps the bottle by the neck as she pushes an errant hair behind her ear, leaving a dusting of flour across her forehead. Mulder is bending to shuck his shoes off onto the mat when he looks up at her. He takes in the sight of her, barefoot, jeans slouching at her hips, her usually coiffed hair pulled up in a ponytail, a knee-length blue apron tied with cords that double around her slim waist. Her apron is smudged with water spots and stains from her prep work, and little wisps of hair are escaping the ponytail and curling around her temples. Mulder’s mouth drops open just a little, as if he’s about to say something but is stopping himself.

  
“What?” Scully notices his hesitation. “What is it?”

  
“Um,” Mulder gulps, “Nothing. Hi. Nice, um,… apron.”

  
Scully feels a flush of color rise to her cheeks when she realizes how she must look. She hurries back to the kitchen as she calls out, “I’ll put this in the fridge. You can use my desk if you want.”

  
“What?” Mulder’s voice is a little louder than it needs to be.

  
“You can use my desk,” Scully repeats, “You know, for your research, or whatever it is you plan on doing with all those files you lugged over here.”

  
“How’s that turkey coming along?” Mulder pads toward the kitchen in his stocking feet.

  
“It’s fine,” Scully lies. “Don’t worry about it.”

  
“Scully!” Mulder exclaims, surveying the mess in front of him, the still-raw turkey propped upside down in the pan, a half-rolled pie crust on the kitchen table, a pot of potatoes dangerously close to boiling over on the store. “What time were you planning on eating? You need to get that turkey in the oven!”

  
“Oh, and I suppose you know how to do this?” Scully scoffs at him, trying to hide her embarrassment before her exasperation get the better of her. “That stupid Butterball hotline is busy!” she exclaims, a touch of desperation setting into her voice. “I can’t believe they’ve been busy all morning!”

  
“Who needs the Butterball hotline when I’m around, Scully?” Mulder laughs as he strides purposefully into the kitchen.

  
“You’re not serious?” Scully stares disbelieving.

  
“Watch and be amazed, Scully. You got another one of those aprons around here?”

  
Scully grabs another apron from the hall closet and watches wide-eyed as Mulder pushes up the sleeves of his grey sweater and loops the apron over his head. With one smooth motion, he flips the turkey breast-side up and lifts the flap of skin where the pouch of innards is tucked. Pulling it out, he raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t think you want to cook it with this still in here, do you?”

  
“There it is!” Scully sighs. “I cannot tell you how long I have been trying to figure out where that was hiding. And stuffing, where do you put the stuffing?”

  
“I take it this is your first turkey?” Mulder asks.

  
“What was your first clue?” Scully replies sarcastically. “And I take it you’ve done this before?”

  
“Yeah,” Mulder admits. “Granted, it was a long time ago, but my first year at Oxford, I got profoundly homesick right around this time of year. I was determined to have a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for my roommates, so I had my mom ship me a turkey.”

  
“She shipped you a turkey?” Scully looks incredulous.

  
“To her credit, she did. Overnighted it,” Mulder explains. “Too bad she didn’t ship instructions.”

  
Scully waits, anticipating the rest of the story.

  
“Let’s just say, it was an experiment,” Mulder laughs. “I learned some lessons.”

  
“I don’t suppose you want to help me out then?” Scully asks.

  
“I live to serve, Scully. Plus, this apron really brings out my eyes, don’t you think,” he says with a wink.

  
Scully rolls her eyes and thrusts a bowl of pre-made stuffing at him. “Okay, I knight thee, Sir Turkey-Prep. I’ll take care of the pie and the potatoes.”

  
“Sounds fair, mi’lady,” Mulder replies as he begins fumbling around for a spoon to scoop stuffing into the chest cavity of the bird.

  
They settle into a busy rhythm in Scully’s small kitchen, only occasionally bumping shoulders or elbows as each reach across the counters for utensils or ingredients. At some point, Mulder insists they need music, so Scully puts on a mix CD of classic rock -- CCR and Neil Young -- to which Mulder protests, “You can’t listen to a Canadian rocker on Thanksgiving, Scully. It’s unAmerican.”

  
“True” says Scully with a smile, “but it was really more that I’m feeling ‘Helpless, Helpless’ in the kitchen today.”

  
“Well, I’m glad I came then,” Mulder says, looking over at her with a grin. For a moment the air in the kitchen seems to vibrate with something significant before both of them return to their tasks. Soon, Mulder glances over to watch Scully bending to put the pie in the oven, her blue jeans slipping a little to expose a swath of the creamy skin of her lower back and the white lace trim of her panties.

  
Mulder swallows loudly, trying to force himself to look away. “Nice apron you got there, Scully. I never took you for the apron type. You’re more the scrubs and visor, am I right?”

  
“You already said that Mulder,” Scully furrows her brow. “What’s with you and aprons?”

  
“Nothing,” Mulder laughs. “Nothing. Forget I said it.”

  
Scully gives him a quizzical look and surveys the mess they've managed to make in a relatively short amount of time. “Is the turkey ready to go in?”

  
“Yup,” says Mulder, “and it's small enough, shouldn't take more than a couple hours to cook. Then we can bake the green beans and mash the potatoes while it cools.”

  
“Sounds like you've got it all planned out?”

  
“Never let it be said I can’t plan ahead,” Mulder quips.

  
“You?” Scully rolls her eyes, “Of course not.”

  
Together, they make quick work of the clean up. Mulder takes on the washing, being careful not to scratch her aluminum mixing bowls and measuring spoons. She stands alongside him drying and putting things away as he alternates singing along to the mix CD and rambling about some of the notes he wants to add to their latest case files. Only once does Scully catch herself standing too close, when he is talking the Ephesian case and his theory that maybe she and he have been friends together in other lifetimes. When he had said it during the case, she had dismissed it gently, crediting the idea to Mulder’s fragile emotional state at the time.

  
But now, washing and drying dishes, moving in circles around one another in the kitchen, talking easily in their off-hour clothes, she can almost believe it. There is an easiness between them that she has always felt, and even more so now in this unusually domestic scene. An easiness she hadn’t expected would extend this far. She can hardly acknowledge the shivers that course up her spine as his arm reaches around behind her to grab one of the dirty bowls from the counter and she is momentarily caught between his sturdy arm and the dish drain, feeling so much smaller next to him without the advantage of her work-day heels. She feels girlish, happy, warm. And they haven’t even opened the wine yet.

  
“I think I’m going to clean up,” Scully says once they’re done and the last of the counters has been wiped down, “if you don’t mind?”

  
“Go for it,” Mulder answers, hanging his wet apron on the nearest door knob. “Maybe I’ll crash on the couch for a bit.”

  
“I can turn on the football game,” Scully offers. “That’s what my dad and my brothers always did on Thanksgiving.”

  
“Actually,” Mulder explains, “I’m not much of a football guy. More into the finesse sports, you know, baseball, basketball? All the brute violence isn’t quite my style.”

  
“Oh really?” Scully raises an eyebrow, swallowing a mention of the time Mulder had gotten them fifty-yard-line tickets to a certain “Redskins vs Vikings at the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome” game.

  
“I’ll be fine, you get cleaned up,” Mulder waves her toward the back room of the apartment. “I’ll keep an eye -- or a nose at least -- on the turkey.”

  
Scully finds herself taking more time than usual showering and changing clothes. Midway through her shower, she realizes she’s shaving above the knee, which she typically doesn't do during the winter months. And then after she pulls on a thin knit sweater and some nicer fitting jeans, she dabs a few drops of a Clinique perfume sample she’s never worn before at the pulse points behind her ears. She does not stop to think about any of this.

  
When she emerges from the bathroom 45 minutes later, her hair only half-dry and still barefoot, Mulder has dozed off, his lanky form curled awkwardly in the crook of her cushions and a few manila file folders tipped open on his chest. Scully tip-toes into the kitchen and checks on the food. Mulder has pulled the pie out of the oven already, and the smell of the turkey has begun filling the apartment. She tries to be quiet opening the fridge, but the hinges of the door always squeak slightly, which causes Mulder to stir.

  
“Sorry!” Scully hisses out in a short whisper. “You can keep sleeping.”

  
Mulder cracks one eye open and slides up to a sitting position. “No, I’m sorry,” he yawns, “I shouldn’t be this tired when we haven't even had turkey yet. Can’t blame it on the tryptophan.”

  
“Want some of the wine while we wait?” Scully motions toward him with the bottle of Pinot she’s removed from the fridge.

  
“Sure, why not?”

  
Scully wedges the bottle between her knees and pulls out the cork, then pours two healthy-sized glasses that she carries with her to the living room.

  
“You clean up nice,” Mulder says with a smile as she sits down on the other end of the couch.

  
Scully stares at him for a moment, waiting for the punchline. She raises an eyebrow as if daring him to say more.

  
“No really,” he protests, “I was just being nice. I don’t usually get to see you like this. It’s different. It’s nice.”

  
“I guess it is nice,” Scully responds, lifting her glass, “Cheers. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  
“Cheers,” Mulder clinks his glass against hers and takes a swig.

  
“So what’s with all the apron comments?” Scully asks as she gulps back a mouthful of wine. “You got something for girls in aprons?”

  
Mulder looks at her with surprise. “You really want to talk about this? Seems like we might want to have a bit more wine before this kind of conversation.”

  
“Hit me,” Scully responds, taking another long drink, “I’m feeling adventurous today.”

  
“Well,” Mulder begins, “I guess you could say it’s just like the ultimate domestic fantasy. The caring woman making me food, all the connotations of home and belonging that go along with it. It’s, well, it’s oddly sexy for some reason.”

  
“And lemme guess,” Scully adds with a boldness that surprises her, “in this version of your fantasy, the girl’s not wearing much under that apron.”

  
“Hey,” Mulder throws up his hands in defense, blushing slightly, “You said it, I didn’t.”

  
Scully lets out a long laugh at his guilty response and slides her feet up underneath her thighs on the couch, turning toward him.

  
“And what about you, Scully,” Mulder pushes ahead teasingly, a grin in his eyes. “What’s your domestic fantasy? What gets your blood pumping? I told you mine. It’s only fair.”

  
Scully pauses, wondering how they’ve gotten themselves into this conversation, but now committed to answering. “Well, for me,” she pauses, “for me, I think it’d have to be seeing a guy in his undershirt.”

  
“Really?” Mulder looks at her quizzically, “that’s it?”

  
“I’m pretty sure I know why,” Scully explains. “My dad always used to take off his dress shirts or his uniform after supper so he could help my mom wash up the dishes. Or he’d go around the house in his undershirt collecting the trash. It was just part of his role in the family, just really commonplace and comfortable. So for me, seeing a guy in his undershirt kind of gives me that same feeling you’re talking about -- home, belonging, comfort, ordinary sexiness. All that shit.” She takes another long drink, her glass nearly empty.

  
“That makes sense,” Mulder mumbles, not looking at her directly as he finishes the dregs of his wine.

  
For a moment, neither of them look at each other and Scully wishes desperately she had turned on the TV so she’d have somewhere to look other than at the floor or at Mulder. “More wine,” she half asks, half commands as she urgently hops up from the couch to retrieve the bottle.

  
“Definitely,” replies Mulder, “But we should probably put some food in there too or things could get really awkward really fast.”

  
And they’re not already, Scully thinks. Before she knows it, Mulder has followed her into the kitchen and begun rummaging around her drawers for a pie server.

  
“Life is short, eat dessert first, I always say,” he explains as he lifts two slices of pie out onto small plates.

  
“Oh do you?” Scully questions as she refills their glasses and sets them down across from one another at the kitchen table. The thought, better stay off the couch, flits past her subconscious. Looking around the kitchen, Scully lets out a low laugh, “Mulder, look at all this food!”

  
He glances around as she beckons at the large pot of potatoes, a cooling pie, a browning turkey filled with stuffing, and another large green bean casserole waiting on the stovetop. “I hope you like leftovers,” he answers with a laugh of his own.

  
“What was I thinking?” Scully shakes her head, “There is no way you and I can even make a dent in all this. We should call the Lone Gunmen. Do you think they’d want to come help eat all this?”

  
“Are you kidding?” Mulder exclaims, “They’re probably knee deep in terrible cheesesteaks and online gaming right now. They’ve probably not had a real Thanksgiving in years.”

  
“Okay, you can call them and I’ll check on this turkey,” Scully commands as she bends down to open the oven, once again treating Mulder to a glimpse of white lace at the curve of her waist. He swallows hard and reaches for the phone.  
________________________________

  
The Lone Gunmen prove to be exceptionally effusive in their appreciation for Scully’s invitation. They do their best to polish off the feast and, in the end, leave her with only a respectable amount of leftovers. While the conversation isn’t what Scully is used to -- there’s a lot more discussion of conspiracy theories and the latest technobabble than she’s used to, although not much more than anyone with a crazy uncle might be subjected to yearly -- it’s a pleasant meal, and any sense of pathetic singleness Scully might have been feeling is replaced with appreciation for the weird little band of friends she does have. Of course the wine helps.

  
Frohike, Byers and Langley politely clear their plates and stack them in the sink before thanking Scully and heading toward the door. Scully fully expects Mulder to head out with them, but as they all stand around in the entryway putting their shoes on, Mulder makes no motion to do the same. When the three of them leave, Scully turns to wish him goodnight, only to catch him sauntering back toward the kitchen.

  
“You didn’t think I was going to leave you with all the cleanup, did you?” Mulder asks over his shoulder as she follows him.

  
“Well, I can’t say it would be out of character,” Scully replies.

  
“You wound me, madame,” Mulder jokes.

  
Before she can process what’s happening, Mulder grips the hem of his sweater and pulls it over his head, dropping it over the back of a chair.

  
“Let me get the garbage,” he says, scooping the remains of the turkey carcass and stray napkins into the bin. “You can start on the dishes, and then I’ll help dry.”

  
Scully stares at him for a moment, her mouth gone completely dry. Her field of vision is completely composed of Mulder’s well-formed chest thinly covered by a plain white undershirt. Her eyes linger over the definition of his biceps and forearms, usually hidden beneath dress shirts and coat sleeves. He is completely beautiful, and he is here in her kitchen, about to take out the garbage and help with the dishes.. She can’t move. She can’t speak. She bites her lip and tries to catch her breath. Fortunately, Mulder seems not to notice her wide-eyed paralysis.

  
“Here,” he adds, not quite meeting her eye, tossing her the blue apron from where it’s hung on the doorknob, “you don’t want to get dishwater on that nice sweater.”

  
She lifts it slowly over her head and ties the cords double around her waist before turning to watch him. He is looking at her with a soft, unreadable expression, the warm flush of good food and too much wine settled over his face and chest. Scully swears she almost sees him make the slightest wink. Almost. Maybe.

  
With a gulp, she turns the mix CD back on, Neil Young serenading them as she rolls up her sleeves and plunges her hands deep into the soapy water, grateful for something to keep her hands busy, wishing her mind and the rest of her body were as easily distracted..

  
“Helpless, helpless,” she sings along softly, “helpless.”

 

  
___________________________________  
*** With credit and thanks to my mother-in-law for the story of her first turkey mishap, my own mom for being my personal Butterball hotline every year, and to my friends abroad who for many years helped make my own Thanksgiving feasts when I was far away from home.


End file.
